


Light Pollution

by orien



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional, Hurt, Post-The Sign of Three, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orien/pseuds/orien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fic detailing Sherlock's life after John is married.</p><p>"Sherlock had thought he’d have the time to offer the same calloused hand into an act of redamancy, but as John sought to constantly remind him, he was incapable of such things, and time had run out. If only to offer himself a false sense of solace, he could pretend it was easier."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Pollution

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after the sign of three, taking place when His Last Vow would be taking place.
> 
> Lyrics at the beginning are from "I Gave You All", by Mumford and Sons.
> 
> Enjoy.

_How can you say your truth is better than ours?_  
_Shoulder to shoulder, now brother, we carry no arms_  
_And the blind man sleeps in the doorway his home_  
_If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy I could have won_  
_But I gave you all_

If it weren’t for light pollution, you’d be able to see the stars light up the sky. You could see all of Orion, not just his shoulder, and you’d be able to see Andromeda twinkling white amidst the velvet expanse of nothing stretching far and wide. If you didn’t have the skill to spot these constellations with the naked eye, at least one could appreciate the blanket of clinquant light bulbs, reminding one of their origin; how one is little more than star dust, evidence of the supernova death of a giant ball of gas.

If you were a romanticist, you might even go as far to say that there was something metaphorical in that analogy. John was, and he once told Sherlock a story of a night spent in Kandahar laid atop a dusty sleeping bag in the company of his fellow soldiers, staring up at the sky until sleep offered them a tentative hand with the promise of sanctuary until dawn broke out across the rolling hills and sandy roads. Sherlock had contemplated in the duration of this tale, how strange it seemed that a solider could detach himself from his duties and consider the irony of how their enemy slept under the same sky, made from the same stardust. How two sides fighting the same war, completely varied in ideals and morals, who spent countless hours taking the lives of those they could never hope to understand, yet who all were born under the same sky, to the same world. But he could appreciate that whilst John was a veteran, a commanding officer, he was also a quiescent soul, who believed in love and all things Sherlock considered meretricious. John was no raconteur, as his blog so adequately proved, but in his words held something Sherlock could never quite grasp; as though John were allowing him insight to something extremely precious. 

Sherlock had thought he’d have the time to offer the same calloused hand into an act of redamancy, but as John sought to constantly remind him, he was incapable of such things, and time had run out. If only to offer himself an false sense of solace, he could pretend it was easier.

Human skin replenishes every twenty seven days, and Sherlock thinks, miserably, that he never pinned John down with his weight to trace his fingertips over the cuts and grazes they had acquired on a case. He never brushed John’s scar with his lips, never pressed his thumbs into the hollow of John’s hips. He’d never touched that skin. 

He also thinks, miserably, that morphine overdose causes respiratory depression, and in a perfectly healthy person, would take about fifteen minutes to be fatal. This, to Sherlock, is a far more efficient death, far quicker, and far more painless.

*

On a Saturday morning - or perhaps it was Monday, Sherlock doesn't care - John comes by the flat. So forlorn does Sherlock feel, although he would never express this in his countenance, he ignores the doorbell. John used to have a key, but since the door had been all but destroyed under the boot of someone less than pleased with Sherlock's continued existence, to say the least, the locks had been changed. Regardless, Sherlock is more than familiar with the knock - twice, second with fractionally more force than the first - and he breathes through his nose, discarding the index finger of a corpse he'd been slicing up for the last two minutes. With a painstaking lack of cases which held any remote form of promise to rescue Sherlock from crippling boredom, he had seen to escaping his tedium by any means possible, which had, on one occasion, found him infiltrating Mrs Hudson's flat as he attempted, to her tumultuous annoyance, to deduce where her latest pursuit had been before he'd arrived to take her for dinner, by the marks and dirt left in the hall from his shoes. 

He knows at this point, he’ll do anything to stop him resorting to the needle. Because John - John wouldn't want that. John's happiness was imperative, above all things.

It had been only days since they had last seen each other, because John had come around to ask Sherlock if he still had the notepads from the week he had confiscated his laptop ("I'm not giving it back until you can stop embellishing our cases with fanciful rubbish.") Eventually, Sherlock had slid it under John's bed, and waited for him to discover it himself. 

Sherlock told him no, he'd thrown them out. (“They were taking up space.”)

On this particular meeting, John stands in the doorway after Mrs. Hudson had let him in, all slackened posture and smile lines as if he were the happiest man alive. As expected; domesticity suits the wounded soldier well. Sherlock peers around the kitchen, clad in maroon dressing gown.

"Ah, John." 

John smiles, offering a curt wave before ambling to the kitchen in that way of his that looks as though he’s suffering severe chafing. Mary uses Lenor Lavender to wash their clothes. Sherlock picks up on the different scent immediately. Mary also irons John's shirts, and they are going for lunch today, so John has shaved. Domesticity. 

"You, uh... you okay?" John asks, flexing his fingers at his sides. Sign of unease. Perhaps he also felt the way the atmosphere between them seemed to weigh down upon them, suffocating, like a sheet of cellophane wrapping around their bodies and asphyxiating them until the lack of oxygen turned them blue. 

Small talk had never been his strong suit, and Sherlock adjusts his collar uncomfortably. John is stalling, though this time, the detective doesn't know why. A fraction of a second later, he is responding, hands smoothing down the faint creases in his shirt. "Yes. Perfectly okay. Fine." His answer is far too quick and rehearsed. His gaze is soft and that hurts, because John will never translate this as Sherlock's way of communicating affection. "Why?" 

With a quick glance around the flat, John replies, "Just asking. You know it's a societal norm to ask somebody how they are in greeting?" 

Sherlock's brows draw together in the middle before relaxing and his shoulders raise minutely in a half hearted shrug. "I haven't noticed." 

It is approximately nine in the morning in the middle of Spring, and the light spilling into the flat casts a glow over John that bleaches his hair and takes ten years off of him. Sherlock briefly thinks about how Mary gets to see him like this each morning, tangled in bed sheets and sun kissed, and maybe she strokes a thumb across his cheek, maybe she doesn't. _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

"So. I came to ask you something, actually." John's voice pierces his thoughts, an aged hand coming forth and pulling him back out from the taunting retreat of his mind. "I know you'll say no, but Greg said I should ask anyway." He palms the back of his neck absently. 

Sherlock stares dead ahead, blinking several times before John proceeds. 

"Drinks. Tonight. At the pub." John pockets his hands, eyes expectant. "...I thought it was a bit of a punt asking you." 

Sherlock frowns. "Why didn't you just text?" 

The look on John’s face was something akin to perplexity. "I've texted you four times in the last three days, Sherlock. You haven't responded to any of them." 

Oh, yes, of course. Sherlock had hidden his phone down the side of the sofa five days prior. The only times it seemed to be going off was when Mycroft saw to harassing his little brother at every given opportunity.

_From: Mycroft Holmes_  
_How’s Dr Watson finding married life, I wonder?_  
_March 12th 10:47_

_From: Mycroft Holmes_  
_It would seem you’ve been inactive for some time._  
_March 12th 12:03_

_From: Mycroft Holmes_  
_You’re slipping, Sherlock._  
_March 13th 21:16_

_From: Mycroft Holmes_  
_I told you caring wasn’t an advantage._  
_March 15th 16:00_

_From: Mycroft Holmes_  
_I’ll remind you that I have access to every camera in London._  
_Think before you act, brother dear._  
_March 16th 14:18_

He wouldn't have been so ignorant if he'd known it was John. 

Or maybe he would have.

Sherlock closes the distance to the sofa, shoving a hand down in between the leather and rummaging his mobile free. He holds it up in display, and John gives a silent "oh." 

_From: John Watson_  
_Anything I can help with? Cat stuck in a tree, triple homicide?_  
_March 18th 14:29_

_From: John Watson_  
_Mary said she saw you looking into the window of a bridal store in town. Alibi of a suspect depend on the display? Can't think of any other reason you'd be want to be within ten miles of a bridal store after the wedding_  
_March 19th 11:06_

_From: John Watson_  
_I've only just seen that you hacked my blog. I don't know why I bother changing the password._  
_March 20th 13:30_

_From: John Watson_  
_If you're still alive, Greg wants to invite you for drinks tomorrow. I don't know why I'm asking._  
_March 20th 18:43_

It is hard to discern any type of emotion from Sherlock's face, and John glances down, clearing his throat. "So no, then?" he asks, the brief moment of silence stretching out too wide for his liking. The detective heaves a sigh, chucking his phone back against the sofa. Not so long ago, the silence would have been amicable. Now, they stand separated not only by a few meters of Mrs. Hudson's ugly carpet, but by a Nile of words unspoken and skins of memories unsheathed. Maybe if John hadn't met Mary, Sherlock would close the gap in long strides, push John against the wall and palm the curve of his spine, maybe he would retune his body and recalibrate his mind to harmonise with every fibre of John's being. Maybe instead of claiming his mouth with his own, he'd push his body against John’s and duck his head to breathe his air. 

Sherlock doesn't even entertain the possibility that maybe if he hadn't gone away, these idle daydreams would be reality rather than his imagination. He doesn't try because he knows that if he does, it might push him past the point of no return.

"Drinks with you and Gavin? In a pub full of... people." Voice curling around the word as though the taste was bitter and alien on his tongue, Sherlock strides back toward the kitchen. He sinks down into the chair at the table, nimble hands taking up the blade once more and sawing rather violently through another finger. This particular person had been a chronic smoker, Sherlock observes, and the thought makes him yearn for the temporary relief of nicotine. "No, unfortunately I have far too much on."

He refuses mostly because, however much the palpable ache in his chest whines to be in the doctor's company, simultaneously, he cannot bear the proximity. 

He notes, absently, that John doesn't even bother to correct Sherlock on Lestrade's forename.

Nodding once, John clears his throat. "Right, yeah. No, I can, uh... I can see that." He gestures toward the table, brow furrowing minutely at what scattered its surface before smoothing out into concern. "But you're okay, though?" 

The crunch of weakened bone as Sherlock slices through another finger coincides with his sudden glance upward, and, rather coincidentally, Mrs. Hudson shattering a plate downstairs. His gaze is scrutinising as he addresses John, wondering for a fleeting moment if the doctor could read something in his eyes that he worked so hard to conceal. The walls come up and around him like wildfire. 

"I was rather under the impression that we'd already established my being okay in your conformation to 'societal norms' upon your entry." 

"No, but you know what I mean. You've been..." John stalls, searching for the right words to accurately encompass what he'd been able to gather from Sherlock's behaviour, "...off." He wets his lips with his tongue, an action spared little thought, but it makes Sherlock's stomach flip all the same. He was quite convinced that such a thing would not have bothered him two years ago, but now the impossibility of ever loving John in all ways Mary did and so much more, and John loving Sherlock in all ways Sherlock had spent countless nights trying not to imagine, it made his fingers curl around the handle of the knife. How fickle of humanity. To yearn for one in tenfold only when you can never have them. A flaw in evolution. 

_"How would you know? You've not been here. Would you like me to inform you that in fact, no, I am not okay? Would you like me to detail how whilst you've been enjoying married life I've been alone in this flat staring at an empty chair?"_

The things Sherlock would have said if it he couldn’t be certain the unavoidable look of pity on his doctor’s face would break him. 

Instead, what he does say is this: "I'm aware I may have been a little reclusive recently. I'll refrain from hiding my phone in upholstery in the foreseeable future." 

John nods.

“You know you could tell me if something was wrong? I mean, I know things have been different since... well, since Mary. But it doesn’t change the facts.”

The detective listens as the knife finally breaks through the marrow to cut across the table, eyes darting up to meet John’s face. “Facts?”

“Yes, the facts. That you’re my best friend. Friends talk to each other, and I’d like to think that you consider me as enough of a friend to be able to come to me if something was wrong.” 

Sherlock wants to laugh. He wants to erupt with the sudden urge to cackle, throw his head back and shake with the force of it. He wants to scream into John’s face. How little he knew. How little he knew of how Sherlock considered John as so much more than simply his friend, as his soul mate, his companion, the one to whom he’d gave all. “If it would ease your worries, then yes. But don’t keep yourself awake at night, John. I’m not about to throw myself off of another building.” 

Oh, God. The words are out before he can stop them and his stomach lurches as John flinches like he’d been struck. 

But ever the soldier, John finds his composure instantly. His fingers flex subconsciously against his legs and he nods, looking to the floor and then the door. “Good to know. I’ll be off then.” 

His chest is tight and his throat is dry. “Give Mary my love.”

When John is gone, Sherlock begins to dissect a heart. 

*

The following week, Lestrade asks Sherlock for his help involving a woman who had been found dead in her home, bullet wound to the abdomen lying next to a photograph bleached with her blood. Once forensics had salvaged as much of the picture as possible, it depicted the woman with a man, his arm around her waist and lips to her forehead. 

The woman, by the name of Lorraine Felkes, had had an affair with the man in the picture behind the back of her abusive husband. Upon first glance it would look as though the affronted husband had sought his revenge in the colour of blood, and Lorraine had gone to a lot of effort to make it seem this way. 

“Elementary. Lorraine thought he was ‘the one’. Put up with him for years. Eventually, she grew tired, and wanted him to suffer the way she had. So she commits suicide and tries to frame him with her murder.” 

The angle of the shot had been all wrong, and could only have been administered by her hand.

“Mad, isn’t it?” Lestrade had wondered out loud, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What love can drive a person to do.” 

Sherlock had offered no reply, except the flap of his coat as he turned and walked away. 

*

Maslow stated that physiological requirements – food, water, shelter – are the most important things a person requires to survive. Love and belonging – friendship, family, relationships – are only the third most important. 

Sherlock wonders when his priorities became so warped.

*

It is late, and London breathes a sigh of rest outside his window as the city sleeps bathed in moonlight. 

The strings of his violin at the skilful manipulation of his fingers purr the melody of something spontaneous, and he stares into the neglected mug of tea Mrs. Hudson had brought up for him several hours ago. He stares at anything to prevent his gaze wandering to the unoccupied armchair in front, and yesterday, he grazed the fabric with his fingers and recoiled at how cold it was. 

He doesn’t know when to stop playing nowadays, because John is no longer there to shout at him.

*

_From: Mary Watson_  
_Talk to John, would you? I know he misses you._  
_Mary xxx_  
_March 31st 17:03_

_[Message deleted]_

*

“Are you sure about this, Sherlock?”

Mycroft places both hands on the armrests of his chair, owl like features inexplicably softer than its usual practised indifference, and it makes Sherlock feel sick.

“Absolutely.” 

The detective is unfaltering; because he’d be dammed before he let his brother peel off the mask he was so adept at wearing. 

Mycroft sighs, rubbing a finger against his temple in a rare sign of fatigue. “You understand I cannot guarantee your survival.” 

“Yes.”

A long moment is spent in which Mycroft scrutinises his little brother, and for a moment, he thinks he can see the eyes of a little boy who cried for a week when his dog was euthanised.

“Your decision greatly distresses me and I urge for you to reconsider. However...” the elder hesitates, turning his head to see rain sliding down the window panes. “I know full well that you’d sooner gouge your own eyeballs from your head than heed my advice, so if you are certain, I shall make the call.” He allows a moment to pass in which he hopes, stupidly, that Sherlock will change his mind. But he doesn’t. He remains stoic and unbending, the dim lighting of the drawing room casting shadow over the planes of his face.

“I do not wish to be in London anymore, and this provides a perfect opportunity for me to leave without causing too much distress to John. All he needs to know is that I’ve been placed back in Eastern Europe on urgent business.” 

Mycroft squeezes his eyes shut, before his body slumps in defeat, and he brings his phone to his ear.

*

_To: John Watson_  
_It is imperative that you understand something, John._  
_Everything I have ever done in the time you have had the misfortune of knowing me, has been for you._  
_But this, this is for me._  
_Because I cannot bear to watch you offer yourself to somebody else any longer._  
_SH_

_[Message not sent]_

Sherlock pockets his phone and before he boards the plane, he spares one moment to return Mycroft’s gaze. An entire childhood is being relayed in those eyes, reminding Sherlock of years playing deductions and poking wasp nests. 

The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile, and then it is gone, and he is descending the stairs leading to the door of the jet. 

London is a blur of life beneath him as he stares from the window, and he breathes a silent goodbye to the city that he had called his home for more than half his life, filled him with adrenalin as he called it’s alleys his maze and chased a scent through the air past the pollution and buzz of industrialism. More importantly, he breathes a silent goodbye to the city that had found him his soul mate, even if he could never truly have him. 

If it weren’t for light pollution, you’d be able to see the stars light up the sky. 

Sherlock wonders if perhaps one day, he and John will be looking up at the sky at the same time, searching for the stars that had become a rarity to behold.


End file.
